


Fallout

by ToWhomItMayConcern



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Requests, Small mention of smut, a pinch of fluff, loss of a child, prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToWhomItMayConcern/pseuds/ToWhomItMayConcern
Summary: The fallout after the loss.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Kudos: 37





	Fallout

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, I hurt myself a little writing this.

“Dinosaurs.”

Din looked curiously towards his daughter, who was sitting casually by his feet, drawing with the new supplies you and Din managed to scrounge up. 

“Dinosaurs?” He teased. “Are you sure that’s what that is?”

His daughter giggled, brown locks similar to his own bouncing with her laughter. 

“Yeeees,” she drawled. “You know that daddy.”

You smiled softly at the scene, watching your husband and daughter relax and bond in this small but perfect moment. 

Your daughter, who looked so much like you but had most of her father’s personality, smiled up at Din like he hung up the moon for her. And you knew Din loved your daughter unconditionally since the day you found out you were pregnant. Nothing would ever be able to tear them apart, and it made you tear up just thinking about it. 

Your daughter saw you first, beaming and squirming in Din’s arms. 

“Look mommy!”

She holds up her drawing and you cooed at it. 

“Wow, that looks amazing sweetheart!” You said. You walked towards them, crouching down in front of them. “And daddy just doesn’t know anything about art.”

She giggled and it was the sweetest sound in the world to you. You and Din joined in, watching as she scrambled from his arms. 

“Where are you going?” Din asked. 

“To find my toys!” She yelled as she disappeared around the corner of your little home. 

Din smiled warmly at her, then at you. He didn’t say anything and you laughed, crawling in his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“What’re you staring at?” You teased.

“You.” He simply answered. “Or I may be mistaken. You could also be a -”

“Don’t you even finish that sentence if you still want me to go down on you later,” you warned. 

His mouth immediately closed and it made you cackle, giving him a short kiss on his lips. 

“I think she’s going to an artist when she gets older,” Din mused. “Certainly didn’t get that from me.”

You hummed. “My mother. She tried teaching me when I was a little kid, but it always came out wrong. Never had an interest in it anyway.”

“Mommy daddy look!”

You both sighed, but reluctantly stood up. You smiled when Din grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. 

“We did good,” he said. “With her. She’s going to be amazing when she grows up.”

You nodded and sighed. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”

Din scoffed. “Neither am I.”

-

He’s been watching you for hours now. 

You barely move on the bed, laying with your back turned to him. He takes another gulp, the alcohol burning down his throat; he looks forward to it now. 

But as sluggish as his mind is, there’s still a battle waging inside him.

And. You’re. Just. Lying. There.

He roughly swats at your calf, watching you jump. You slowly sit up, turning to him. 

It scared him at first, the bags under your red, swollen eyes, the sores around your nose and your hair unkempt. 

“‘Et up,” he slurs. 

You glare at him, and there’s no love in your eyes anymore. There’s only grief and anger. 

“You’re j-ju-st sitting there,” he continues, voice rising. 

“And you’re drunk,” you snarl. “Like you always are. What exactly is your point?”

He wants to go back. He wants to hear her little laugh again. To see her smile and to have his little girl in his arms again. 

To see more of her drawings again. Pick her up and read her stories and put her to bed. To deal with all the stupid silly little tantrums and sloppy little kisses on his cheek.

He wants to see his daughter grow up into a beautiful woman as her mother. 

He wants to go back to a time where you were happy. When he was happy. He wants to be able to kiss you again without poison bleeding into it. He wants your arms around him again, assuring him that everything is going to be okay. 

When you didn’t sleep all the fucking time. And he didn’t rely on the next drink to get him through another day. 

That is his point. 

He wants to scream it to you. But you both are calling for help in your own ways, struggling to swim back to the surface, drowning in your own wallows of black water. 

Your ugly, loud sobs echo through the bare, dark room. He feels it deep to his core, and it makes him take another gulp. 

It doesn’t help.

“She was ours,” you sob. “She was my daughter.”

“And she’s gone.” It comes out harsh and he doesn’t regret it. 

Not now at least.

It only makes you cry harder. He stumbles up, vision blurring as he falls onto the bed with a hard flop. It barely disturbs you and you won’t take your hands away from your eyes. There’s tears and spit running down your chin, but you make no attempts to wipe them away. 

“We’ll be okay. It wasn’t our fault. We can do this together. Just please, stay with me.”

He wants to say this to you but instead he crawls up to the pillows and pushes his leg against your thigh. 

Because even though he knows you’re both doomed, he still seeks these small, familiar touches before that disappears from him too.


End file.
